


Public Domain

by deklava



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Fetish, Fingerfucking, Group Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgy, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock approached until they were close enough to touch. Then he leaned against the brick wall, smirked, and crossed his arms. He knew what he must look like, with his bed-messed hair, unbuttoned white shirt, and tight leather trousers that were doing a poor job of concealing his erection. But he didn’t care. Not tonight. Perhaps the spirit of the club was infecting him, but he wanted Lestrade to see him in all his rumpled, debauched glory.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coitus Interruptis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyElayne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyElayne/gifts).



> **Beta:** chasingriver

Sherlock Holmes groaned as the tattooed blonde kissing his chest began alternating her tongue swipes with deliciously painful nipple bites. His long fingers dug into her chemically fried hair.

_The process of bleaching hair entails the oxidation of melanin with hydrogen peroxide…_

He had to stop himself. He was here to indulge his neglected body, not send his quicksilver brain into overdrive. Reaching over the woman, Sherlock took the open absinthe bottle off the side table and gulped down a mouthful. The powerful liquor instantly scorched his mind into submission and made the lust burn brighter in his gut.

“A little harder,” he urged her, voice honey-thick. He shuffled across the scarlet-sheeted mattress, pressed his bulge against her hip, and began grinding. “Oh, fuck….”

The man behind him edged closer. “You’re so hard,” he murmured, reaching around and massaging Sherlock’s crotch through the leather trousers. “Want me to suck you, beautiful?”

Sherlock did. Badly. The warm mouth on his nipples made his cock crave similar attention. But before he could fumble for his zip, the club manager appeared in the doorway. She looked irritated.

“Holmes, there’s a bloody copper at the side door, asking for you. When he showed me his badge some customers did a runner. Go downstairs and get rid of him.”

Sherlock raised his head off the pillow. Impossibly, his cock grew even harder. “Late forties? Silver hair? Annoying but attractive?”

“Yeah.”

Trying not to smirk as he struggled away from his surprised partners, Sherlock said, “I’ll be right down.”


	2. Making His Move

It was three-thirty in the morning, but everyone in the club was just getting started, from the looks of things.

The sight that greeted Sherlock when he opened the door leading into the club proper was something Dante had surely envisioned for his Inferno. On the backlit dance floor, people ground against each other in ways that _couldn’t_ be legal. Skirts and tops had been reincarnated as mere belts, smooth buttocks peeked over lowered trousers, and painted lips hungrily tackled erogenous zones. The erotic decadence of ancient Greece had been resurrected in twenty-first century London, highlighted in neon and underscored by music carefully chosen to incite already-heated passions.

As he crossed the cavernous room, Sherlock’s pulse galloped. He knew that Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was likely here to scold him for not checking his mobile all night. The older man once said, “Any time you’re too quiet, I know you’re up to something.” It appeared that neither Lestrade nor Mycroft ever intended to let Sherlock live down his past as a junkie, which made minor rebellions like this one perversely pleasurable.  Sighing and giving his still-aching crotch a squeeze, he pushed open the alley door and stepped into the hot summer night.

The high brick walls of neighbouring buildings hid the alley and its adjoining courtyard from the street, so some club patrons had opted to take their mating games outside. People wearing latex and glitter lit up joints, sucked each other’s tongues (as well as other appendages), and shed clothes that had become inconvenient. And there, in the middle of all the lust-driven insanity, was Gregory Lestrade.

The Detective Inspector looked annoyed: his hands were buried in his overcoat pockets and he had that tense air of authority that was second nature to seasoned police officers. But he also appeared worried.

“Sherlock! What the hell?” he exclaimed when the younger man came outside.

Sherlock approached until they were close enough to touch. Then he leaned against the brick wall, smirked, and crossed his arms. He knew what he must look like, with his bed-messed hair, unbuttoned white shirt, and tight leather trousers that were doing a poor job of concealing his erection. But he didn’t care. Not tonight. Perhaps the spirit of the club was infecting him, but he _wanted_ Lestrade to see him in all his rumpled, debauched glory.

“You weren’t answering your texts. So I traced your mobile’s coordinates to this place,” Lestrade said. Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was just his imagination, but the policeman’s eyes seemed to glaze over a bit as he stared at the lipstick marks on the detective’s white chest.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Sherlock drawled, sounding more casual than he felt. He’d always been attracted to Lestrade, who appeared to care about him to a degree that no one except Mummy or Mycroft ever had. But the Detective Inspector was invariably paternal toward him, which annoyed and frustrated Sherlock in turn. “Although you did interrupt me in the middle of a rather engaging threesome.”

Lestrade’s brown eyes blinked rapidly and widened, much to the younger man’s delight. “Have you been drinking?”

“Maybe. What of it? According to my birth certificate, I’m over eighteen.”

“It’s too dangerous for you. You know that.”

“No more than the cases you give me. I still have bruises from the Archway Strangler.” Sherlock tipped his head back, baring his milky throat. The love bites that dotted it were much more vivid than the fading finger marks he was referring to. Lestrade stared at them and swallowed heavily before stepping forward and grabbing one of Sherlock’s slender wrists.

“Right. You’re off your pins. I’m taking you home.”

Sherlock jerked his arm away. “I don’t think so,” he said. The defiance, combined with the absinthe that still warmed his blood, made him giddy. “I have a lovely couple waiting back inside for me, and I have no intention of disappointing them.” He paused and stared at the policeman with undisguised hunger, letting the liquor and lust smash all remaining inhibitions. “Unless I get a better offer.”

Lestrade’s lips parted. “You’re fucking mad,” he breathed at the same time that his pupils flared and a flush darkened his face. Sherlock had often fantasized about seeing him like this: on edge, with that commanding veneer melting slowly from the heat of raw, relentless desire. The reality was so much better than he’d expected that Sherlock upped the provocation.

“I’m also a damn good shag.” He turned back toward the club door. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

He never made it back inside. The silver-haired policeman seized his arms and pushed him back against the dirty brick wall with a force that made his cock jump. Sherlock loved being physically dominated, but his sarcastic and forbidding persona made few lovers want to try it. Whenever he found someone who did take him firmly in hand, he was putty in their grasp, to be shaped into whatever they wanted.

To _do_ whatever they wanted. With his mouth, arse, and anything else that could generate pleasure.

As they stared at each other, Sherlock read Lestrade’s internal struggle like it was a book he’d written himself. The DI had originally stumbled across an addicted, slowly dying Sherlock during a police raid on a Brixton crack house. The hospital staff had saved the young man’s life afterward, but Lestrade had rescued his mind, by recognizing his deductive genius and giving him cases that numbed his psychological cravings for cocaine. Was it twisted for a saviour to want to ravage someone he’d once pulled away from the brink of death?

Had Lestrade ever imagined him like this: sex-flushed and hard and all but begging to be fucked? When the older man failed to grab his arm again and drag him away from this place, he knew he had his answer.

Sherlock brushed Lestrade’s lips with his own. “It’s all right. I want it too.”


	3. Challenge Accepted

Lestrade groaned. “God damn you, man.” Then his tongue was pushing so forcefully into Sherlock’s mouth that the detective could only brace his head against the brick wall and take it, moaning low in his throat. He was on the verge of gasping for air when that punishing mouth drew back and he was spun about to face the wall.

“Hands on your head and spread your legs.” Lestrade sounded breathless. Putting his lips close to the other man’s ear, he whispered, “Need to see if you’re carrying any drugs that could have turned you into such a shameless little slut.”

The pornographic ‘endearment’ made Sherlock’s knees shake. He quickly assumed the position, biting his lip when his bare nipples and swollen crotch brushed against the brick. A few of the club goers paused in their own activities to watch the two men, faces alert with interest, but Sherlock closed his eyes and shut them out, concentrating on Lestrade’s fingers as they slipped beneath his waistband.

“Promise me you haven’t taken any drugs,” the other man murmured against his sweaty neck.

“I haven’t, I swear. Just some absinthe. Oh, _fuck_.” Sherlock choked when a broad hand spanned his belly and slid lower. “Please.”

Lestrade used his other hand to reach into Sherlock’s open shirt and pinch one lipstick-ringed nipple. “You’ve wanted this for a while, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Since- since I first saw you.”

It was true. When Sherlock had regained consciousness in the hospital addictions ward, the first face his drug-addled brain had registered was Lestrade’s. His immediate impression had been ‘bloody handsome’. Then rage at his court-ordered confinement had set in, and he’d hated everyone, even the ‘bloody handsome’ DI. But Lestrade he’d hated the least of all, and he began to anticipate the older man’s visits. At the time, he hadn’t interpreted the feelings as sexual, but now he knew that they were the beginning of _this_.

 _This_ being what he and Lestrade were doing now in this narrow alley while dozens of excited eyes looked on.

His thoughts returned to the here and now when blunt fingers closed over his erection, which now felt impossibly constricted in the leather trousers. “Please,” he begged again, thrusting into the warm grip while a broad thumb rubbed his cock’s wet tip. Pre-ejaculate now dribbled freely, creating a heavenly slickness.

Lestrade moved in closer; Sherlock could definitely feel a growing hardness press against his buttocks. “You,” the DI said, desire darkening his voice to a baritone, “are a manipulative little nightmare.”

“Yes,” Sherlock whimpered as his penis glided through that strong hand.  He could feel the music vibrating through the wall, sending delicious tremors through his belly. “Please, I need you to fuck me.”

That raw plea produced a dramatic effect. Lestrade stopped teasing him and grabbed his narrow shoulders. Sherlock nearly lost his balance and fell when the other man spun him around and pushed him against the filthy bricks for the second time that night. His shirt was yanked off, followed by his belt. Then his trousers and pants were lowered, exposing him to everyone’s hungry gaze. The realization that he was standing in public view, all wet, naked, and desperate, made him moan loudly.

“Don’t move,” Lestrade ordered as he undid his own trousers, took out his cock, and stroked it slowly. “I haven’t done a bloke in years. I want to look at you.” Brown-black eyes consumed Sherlock’s trembling form. “Christ, you’re beautiful.”

He evidently wasn’t the only one who thought so. A handful of half-naked clubbers, men and women, approached. Lestrade stepped back in silent permission and Sherlock nodded once, chin quivering. Then he threw his head back and closed his eyes.

“Please touch me,” he breathed to no one in particular.

The general response was fast and hot. Dry masculine lips kissed him roughly after their owner grasped his jaw hard enough to bruise. Another mouth, this one soft and feminine, sucked gently on his neck while long, polished nails grazed the underside of his erection. When Lestrade caught his breath sharply, Sherlock reluctantly pulled away from the tongue exploring his throat and opened his eyes to a scene of delicious and utter depravity.

A gorgeous Bettie Page lookalike was kneeling in the dirt, undoing the DI’s shirt buttons and marking her progress with wet kisses and sharp bites. A silent man in a leather hood stood behind Lestrade, watching the woman while he stroked the policeman off. Without taking his eyes away from Sherlock, Lestrade arched into the skilful grasp, biting his lip and muttering, “Fucking hell. This is _insane._ Probably illegal… should arrest you all…. Oh fuck, _keep going._ ”

A shirtless young man wearing latex trousers and sporting a perfectly trimmed goatee clasped a fistful of Sherlock’s hair, pulled him away from his worshippers, and forced him to his knees. “Crawl,” he ordered before guiding Sherlock across the alley until the detective’s swollen mouth and Lestrade’s dripping erection were a hair’s breadth apart. “You want to suck him, slut?”

Sherlock breathed deeply through his nose, relishing the musky aroma of an aroused male. Mouth watering, he rubbed his face against the hot column of flesh, letting it paint sticky trails all over his cheeks and chin.

“God, yes,” he finally breathed, voice heavy with unswallowed saliva. “Please, yes.”

The bearded man released him and Lestrade’s fingers assumed the tight grip on his hair. “Do it,” the DI ordered.

Sherlock lurched forward eagerly, drool spilling from his mouth when he opened it wide. His lips clamped greedily around the cock bobbing in his face, tongue pressing the tip against his palate. Lestrade shuddered and groaned as he swallowed his treat inch by inch, until his nose was pressed against a greying thatch of pubic hair.

“Hnngh! Jesus!” Lestrade gripped Sherlock’s curls with such ecstatic intensity that the younger man’s eyes watered. Undeterred, Sherlock pulled back after a few seconds. He dragged his tongue down the veined shaft and licked away the droplets that collected at the slit, relishing both the salty taste and Lestrade’s breathless gasps.

He lifted his eyes as he continued the cock worship, and saw Lestrade leaning against the hooded man and Miss Page, who were practically holding him upright. The DI’s face was awash in sweat and his lips were contracted into an ‘O’ of hot pleasure. _Fuck_ , Sherlock thought, _it’s so amazing to be down here, on my knees amidst cigarette butts and rubbish, Lestrade’s prick sliding across my tongue and trying to fuck my mouth_. With that thought, he forced his throat to loosen and swallowed Lestrade down to the root again.

With a hoarse shout, the DI slammed in deeper, making Sherlock gag. His mouth was so full that his jaw ached and his face was now being fucked at an inhuman speed, but he loved it. He could feel his own cock dripping onto the filthy ground as his excitement soared.

Anonymous hands now ran all over his smooth white back and arse and removed his trousers, pants and boots. When a woman’s perfumed fist gripped his throbbing cock while a man’s rougher palm reached between his legs and fondled his tightening balls, he gurgled around his thickening mouthful and arched his back, silently begging for more. He soon got it: a slicked finger pushed down and inside him, feeling around for his prostate. The moment the hypersensitive gland was stroked, Sherlock shook all over and made a noise that was meant to be “Fuck!”

A litany of hot, scathing, and thoroughly exciting recriminations ran through his fevered mind. _I’m a slut, naked and on all fours in a dirty alley, getting my face fucked and my hole stretched open so my arse can be taken too._ _Mycroft would be mortified._ As he tried to keep from coming on the spot, he wondered if there were any government cameras in the vicinity.

God, he hoped so.

A second finger invaded his hole. His hips bucked as the slick digits scissored inside him, stretching his sphincter and adding a perfect dash of pain to his pleasure. The hands caressing his cock and balls became more ruthless in their ministrations, making Sherlock lightheaded with sensory overload. The heat in his belly tightened, signalling that he’d soon lose the battle to hold orgasm at bay.

“Please,” he begged after reluctantly letting Lestrade’s cock slide from his mouth. “Fuck me now.”

The world lurched and tilted as they pulled him to his feet. Sherlock assumed that they were going to guide him and Lestrade back inside, back into the orgy room where, for all he knew, the honeymooning couple he’d been dry-humping still waited. He exclaimed in surprise when he was suddenly lifted off the ground and suspended in mid-air, body cradled by four men who joined their arms to create a human sling. A doll-faced redhead grasped his legs and pushed them toward his chest, putting his tight arse and lube-slick hole back on display.

“Look at that,” she purred, smiling over her shoulder at Lestrade. “Time to give it to him in this end.”

“We’ll hold him, you fuck him,” one of the men said.

Lestrade didn’t even hesitate. He strode forward, coat and unbuttoned shirt hanging off his bare, muscled biceps, and threw Sherlock’s long legs over his shoulders. As his cock breached the other man’s entrance, he made a noise that was midway between a snarl and a moan. His fingertips dug into Sherlock’s thighs, leaving red marks that would later darken into a lovely purple.

Sherlock keened and let his head fall back. This was _Lestrade_ fucking him like a hormone-fuelled bull, cock splitting him so deep that his senses went nuclear and his awareness narrowed to vivid flashes of colour, light, and sound. As the pleasure in his invaded arse sent the rest of his nerve endings up in flames, he begged with a desperation he normally scorned in others.

“Christ, Lestrade, give it to me…. I want it, I need you to fuck me harder… please, please, please….”

He shifted his hips and ground against Lestrade, who rocked into him again and again, each thrust stronger than the last, until Sherlock wondered if the force might cause the men to drop him. They held fast though, cradling his shivering body as he wailed his bliss to the alley walls.

“Fuck, yes, give it to me, give it to me, again, again….”

“Yes,” Lestrade rasped as his hip movements became faster and more urgent. “Christ, yes. Sherlock….”

Sherlock’s orgasm exploded a force that ripped control over his body away from him. Geysers of thick sperm erupted from his cock, marking his chest and belly. (He’d later find some on his face and in his hair.) Eyes rolling back, he convulsed, open mouth sucking desperately at the warm air. He was vaguely aware that Lestrade was also coming hard, flushing his gut with one hot load after another.  He reached out with one shaking hand and Lestrade grasped it, lacing their fingers tightly together as they shared their first real communion since their paths crossed.


	4. Where Do We Go From Here?

An hour later they were in an all-night coffee shop several blocks away, watching London wake up.

Lestrade gazed across the table at him, looking both embarrassed and self-congratulatory. “How’s your arse?”

Sherlock snorted and took a sip of his cappuccino. “Very romantic. Your question, I mean. Not my arse.” He hesitated as he remembered something. “Oh, sorry. Men like to be congratulated on their sexual prowess, don’t they? In that case, my arse has a pleasant ache from the fucking it received.”

Lestrade’s lips twitched. “Thanks for the compliment.”

“It was sincere. I wanted this to happen for a long time, like I told you.”

“I remember. And so did I. I’m sure you ‘deduced’ that I was easy to persuade.” The DI sat back in the booth. “What do you want, Sherlock, really? A shag buddy? Something more?”

“I really don’t know.” The detective licked cappuccino foam off his lip, making the other man colour slightly. He’d never given his own future much thought, let alone a future with someone else. Excitement rippled through him as he added, “But I would like us to do it again.”

“Same here.” Lestrade signalled to the server for the bill. “Shall I drive you back to Baker Street, or…” He sounded almost shy. “Do you want to come back to mine?”

“I think you’d be bothered by the preserved cadaver on my kitchen table, so we’d best resume things at your flat.” Sherlock squeezed his thighs together, relishing the pressure on his stirring cock.

“Alright then.” The policeman’s eyes glinted with mischief and the early signs of a returning hunger. “But be warned. I want it hard. And I _don’t_ make breakfast.”

Sherlock leaned across their still-steaming coffee cups. “Fine, because I don’t eat it. Breakfast, I mean.”

Surrounded by heat and steam and an oblivious public, they sealed the deal.


End file.
